The Potion Sir Galahad Wished He Had
by Gloredhel04
Summary: In desperate need of money Neville applies to test some of the Weasley twins' latest products. Little does he know they consider him a prime subject for testing an aphrodisiac. Chapter 3 added! 22506 minor editing to chapters 1 & 2.
1. The Need and the Means

**Disclaimer: **I don't own HP, never will.

**Summary**: In desperate need of money when his Gran sends an owl to tell him he will be receiving no more allowance, Neville applies to test some of the Weasley twins' latest products. Little does he know they are starting a new line directed towards a more adult audience, and consider him a prime subject for testing an aphrodisiac. Taken from Challenge #86 from Woobies of Destiny Harry/Neville fuh-q fest.

**Chapter One: The Need and the Means**

Amidst the din of the morning chatter in the Great Hall, a few owls flew in delivering the daily post. Neville watched as various letters and brown packages were dropped off to students and teachers. Not paying particular attention, he jumped in surprise when a familiar owl landed in front of him. In his jerk he knocked a glass of pumpkin juice into Hermione's lap, who jumped up in surprise.

"Blimey, Hermione, I'm sorry," Neville said, trying to mop up the spill with his napkin, his ears turning scarlet. Hermione sighed, and with a swish of her wand and a murmured spell her robes and the table were dry.

"It's alright, Neville," she answered, sitting back down. "So, is that a letter from your grandmother?" Still fighting down his blush, Neville turned back to the owl which seemed to be giving him a withering glare.

He gave her a wan smile, "Oh, yeah, must be." The owl almost bit him when he accidentally pulled its leg too hard as he untied the piece of parchment. As soon as the owl delivered its message, it was off again. For some reason his gran's mangy owl never liked him, even when he tried to give it treats.

Neville shrugged, and opened the letter from his gran.

Although he should have known what she would write about, as she had written to him of nothing else, he slumped in his seat and tried to shield anyone else's view of its contents. It read:

_Neville, _

I am severely disappointed in you for your marks, which have not improved one iota since last term. It's a wonder they have not taken you out of that school yet for all the talent you show. You know you would serve much better at home with me, Neville. You were never one much for academia.

You know, I am sure, the dire straits I have put up with as of late, with the rising medical bills from St. Mungo's, and the cost of your education which you're obviously wasting. It's no wonder I'm destitute. And now, Gringotts keeps writing letters demanding more money, the vultures.

Because of these circumstances, I can no longer send you your allowance of a galleon a month. It was an inexcusable extravagance I indulged you in for too long. They feed you there well enough, I'm sure, and since you have all your atrociously expensive books already, will have no need for anything else.

Do write to your poor grandmother, Neville. With you gone to that school I have no one here to be my company, and am utterly alone.

Love,  
Gran

Without fail, his grandmother always managed to make him feel the size of a gnat yet at the same time guilty for breathing by the time she was through with him. When Neville finished reading the letter, any enjoyment he could have found in the day drained through the holes in his shoes in a puddle on the floor.

He was glad he at least still had Herbology that day, so there was something to look forward to; something he not only liked to do, but excelled in. Also, there really wasn't anything else he could think of he needed to buy at the time, and he still had about ten sickles left. The next Hogsmeade weekend was a month away anyway. What else could he need?

_A whole bloody lot, that's what_. Neville scrutinized his reflection in the lavatory in between lessons. From his time as a first year at Hogwarts to now in his last, Neville grew in more ways than one from the small, chubby, round-faced boy amazed by the size and grandeur of the castle. Now, despite his personal opinion it was hardly worth remarking upon to anyone, he had grown in height to reach most the other boys in his year. _Though Ron still towered over everyone else like a giant_, he thought with a smirk. He tried to straighten his robes, but for the past few months or so, they'd been too tight around his shoulders, and his shirt pulled uncomfortably across his back. He tried to stretch it out a bit more, but only succeeded in making his sleeves pull up halfway to his elbow.

He sighed in exasperation and decided to wait until later to try and make any more adjustments. He tucked his shirt back in his trousers. It seemed he was doing that more often, now because his shirt constantly came out on its own. His pants sagged low on his hips, so he went to tighten his belt another notch, but he looked down in confusion to see there were no more holes in the leather to fasten the belt.

"Huh." Neville shrugged and refastened the belt at its previous position, and tried to pull his pants up enough to make them stay. They only fell back to barely keep a purchase on his hips.

Neville never cared much about his appearance; no one else seemed to care, and he was too busy not slicing his throat while shaving and forgetting his homework to consider primping himself in the morning. When it did cross his mind to make sure his hair was neatly combed back and his robes straight, he wondered exactly what the point was, and who exactly he wished to impress. Such lines of thinking usually kept him away from mirrors for the rest of the day.

No matter his indifference towards his appearance, he drew the line when his clothes just plain didn't fit at any angle, or with any amount of belting or pulling. After a pair of trousers showed his legs past the tops of his socks when sitting down, he tried to figure out a sewing charm. The basic idea would be to let out the hem in his trousers and sew it back lower, which would make them longer.

After that disastrous, failed attempt and a trip to the hospital wing to unstitch two of his fingers from his trousers, Neville had only one pair of trousers left intact, which, of course, were also too short. Adding to his dismay, his robes stopped short about mid calf, no matter how much he stooped. Neville was amazed he had been able to wear them since fourth year, but he was no more able to pay for new ones than he was before. He scoffed at that particular idea. _New ones! I'd be lucky to get threadbare used ones, if only they'd just_ _fit_, he thought.

The more he dwelt on the fact he had no money, the more miserable he became realising how much he needed it.

It was not only clothes he was in need of, which he considered regrettably necessary, but also books. Herbology books, to be specific. Herbology was a way in which Neville could identify himself in a positive way. He was not the imbecilic boy who couldn't brew a boil cure potion without destroying the potions lab, or Ginny Weasley's farcical date to the Yule Ball, or the pathetic excuse for a son of the brave Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom.

Neville was one of the best students in Herbology. He could remember plant names, their magical properties and how to handle them with ease. He found the company of plants, no matter how poisonous or caustic, preferable to the company of other people. It seemed the plants preferred him as well, who flourished under his care. He slowly learned to take pride in his ability in Herbology, and it was an ever-present reminder that he wasn't an accident waiting to happen at everything in his life.

Before term started, he travelled to Flourish and Blott's to buy his school textbooks, but they also had new books on current theories in Herbology; of cross-breeding different plants and the developing new magical abilities that could be used in Potions and Mediwizardry. He asked Hermione about it, and she said Muggles had been doing it for years, something to do with jean therapy, but why trousers needed counselling Neville didn't know.

Neville shuddered just thinking of Potions, but was very interested in the aspect of aiding Mediwizardry. As soon as he could, he searched through the Hogwarts library for anything about cross-breeding, but didn't find any new literature on the subject published within the last fifty years.

He spoke with Professor Sprout, and she commiserated in the sad state of the Herbology section of the library.

"It is a sad thing for that section to be so neglected," she said. "Not many students reach upper level Herbology courses, and those who do generally buy their own books which are more recent." She sighed, and smiled sadly at Neville, who looked as if he lost all hope at her statement. "You are welcome to look through my personal collection," at this Neville's face brightened, "but I have not had much time or the means while teaching here to acquire those more adventurous texts." Ecstatic she offered him such a thing, he thanked her profusely regardless and promised to come later that week to look over her collection.

Unfortunately, her warning proved correct. She did have a great deal more books on the study of magical plants, but none that sparked his interest so keenly as crossbreeding. Neville thanked her nonetheless for her generosity and left with a few of her books, which he tore through so quickly as to make even Hermione proud.

Herbology journals were another source of the groundbreaking research going on, but like the books, were not found in the Hogwarts library, and were much too expensive to subscribe to himself.

It was at times like these when all the things he wished would happen and all the things and people he failed paraded in his head, going in never ending circles reminding him how stupid he was, how he would never succeed even at the one thing in which he was talented, how he could never live up to his mum and dad, how his clothes would never fit right, and how no one would ever notice him.

No one remarked at these times Neville was quieter than usual. At least no one mentioned it to him.

After a while, he would realise pitying himself would get him nowhere, and that he was placed in Gryffindor, not Hufflepuff. Neville refused to think that the Sorting Hat could have been wrong.

So Neville would trudge on, taking the sneering remarks from Snape and the rest of the Slytherins, the indifference of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, and the reluctant acceptance of the Gryffindors in stride.

Yet such a thing as simple as money brought his motivation to keep going to its knees. He knew deep down money does not fix problems and that it doesn't make one happier, but it sure would make some things much bloody easier.

When no one else was in the dormitory and he had a modicum of privacy, he would open his bedside drawer and unwrap the eight Sickles he had in a handkerchief. He would count it, hoping against hope he miscounted somewhere and would suddenly find himself five Galleons richer, but of course this would be an instance where he wouldn't make a mistake.

Was it so wrong to want to be normal, or at the very least have the semblance of it? Was it too much to ask?

* * *

Neville went down to dinner, which started fifteen minutes ago, disgusted with himself.

He helped himself to dinner, but only pushed the food around on his plate. The conversation of the other students whirred around him, the other students indifferent to his presence. He looked down the table at Hermione, Ron, and Harry. Neville was grateful to them all for making an effort to be nice to him, yet the fact they had to make an effort in the first place disheartened him. They were nice about it, though, he thought. Especially Harry. He knew more about Neville than most, and understood what it was like growing up with no parents. A dark thought whispered unbidden at his conscience, which he hastily fought down. Yet like many things, the harder one tries not to think of something, the more it becomes imbedded in one's mind.

At times when his dormitory mates were asleep and he lay awake in the darkness, he felt raw, pure jealousy towards Harry. Not for his fame, his wealth, his friends. But because his parents were dead, and Neville's were not. That feeling scared him more than he would admit to himself and made him so ashamed. Somewhere in between the visits to his parents who did not know who he was, his grandmother indulging them with sweet nonsensical platitudes, and the nurses who kept saying there was no change in their condition, Neville lost hope.

He lost hope he would ever tell his mum about some of the adventures he went through in school, and she would react with surprise and awareness of his tale, that his dad would slap him on the shoulder and tell him how proud he was of his son. That his mother would look in his eyes and tell him how much she loved him, and would embrace him, knowing Neville to be her son that she loved so.

Neville gradually lost hope any of that would happen over the years. To have them so close, to hold their hands, to speak to them, to see them breathing, yet them not being there was more torturous than Neville believed anything could be. Even the event of their deaths.

Yes, Neville envied Harry for that. That Harry could look at pictures of what his parents were like when they were alive and happy, instead of the unshakeable image of them lying in sterile hospital beds being taken care of like newborns. It seemed to be just so much easier.

A shriek brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked around until he saw a third year Ravenclaw being tickled mercilessly by an older boy. A disapproving glance from McGonagall set them to rights.

Neville took a breath and ran a hand through his hair to dispense the cloud of gloom that settled over him. It was just then he noticed a leaflet sitting under a dish of mashed potatoes, with a bit of gravy dripping onto it.

He picked it up and read:

_**GALLONS OF GALLEONS!**  
Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?  
Like to earn a little extra gold? _

Contact Fred and George Weasley at  
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes,  
93 Diagon Alley, London, UK.  
for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs.  
(we regret that all work is undertaken at applicant's own risk)

At first Neville laughed at Fred and George's antics. He should have known they would keep trying to find beta testers, even if they weren't still at Hogwarts. His laughing died, however, when he realised this could be a way to make a little money, to either buy a new pair of trousers or that Modern Herbology periodical.

Alarmed he was even considering willingly becoming a test subject of the Weasleys, he made himself remember all the times he fell prey to their pranks and jokes, his skin turning bright green, for instance, and especially when he was turned into a canary. He refused to let that incident go.

Then why was he considering this?

The thought of getting money which would pay for so many things overrode any rational thought of going into such an agreement with the Weasley twins.

Even though his better judgment was screaming at him to leave everything well enough alone, he decided to send an owl to them at Diagon Alley in the morning, Merlin help him.

* * *

A/N: I edited this chapter just a bit, but did nothing to the overall plot. Hopefully the prose is a bit less awkward. 


	2. Sneezewort, Lovage

Summary: In desperate need of money when his Gran sends an owl to tell him he will be receiving no more allowance, Neville applies to test some of the Weasley twins' latest products. Little does he know they are starting a new line directed towards a more adult audience, and consider him a prime subject for testing an aphrodisiac. Taken from Challenge #86 from Woobies of Destiny Harry/Neville fuh-q fest. Non-HPB compliant.

A/N: I've resigned myself to the fact that this really isn't a PWP, because someone would have dropped their drawers a long time ago. The smut is coming...eventually. I promise!

**Chapter Two: Sneezewort, Lovage Mixed in With a Bit of Grass Always Leads to Befuddlement.**

_There is no aphrodisiac like innocence. _  
- Jean Baudrillard

After completing his homework, Neville spent the better part of his Saturday afternoon in the greenhouse. Professor Sprout long ago allowed Neville to keep a small amount of plants, approved by her, of course in exchange for some manual labour on his part in daily upkeep. The worries and anxieties outside the glass walls would fade away as soon as he inhaled the earthen smell of moist soil and the myriad of scents wafting from different plants in the close, humid air.

Neville felt the swirl of anxiety in his stomach still and his heart ease as he put on an apron and a pair of gloves. This was his environs. There was no one to taunt him here, no one staring him down, watching his every move for the exact moment when he made a mistake. Not many others cared that much about Herbology, but for him it was like coming home. The quiet peace that pervaded the greenhouse entered into him while he was there, and brought clarity to Neville's confusing existence. Neville took the watering pail and began watering the plants which needed it while going over his week.

Potions went as well as expected, which was disastrous, of course. Although Snape no longer had the ability to tower over Neville as menacingly as he once did, the man never lost his talent, nor his wont, to torture him mercilessly. Neville gave up attempting to understand exactly why he was so targeted by the bat of the dungeons, other than that Professor Snape was a sadistic bastard that found pleasure in nothing but instilling fear or pain in others.

Neville walked by the sneezewort plants, and one of them was wilted. He frowned since he knew he watered them two days ago. He put down the watering can, and lifted one of the pots onto a nearby workbench.

God, what exactly did Neville do to deserve that treatment? He knew he wasn't the smartest, quickest, or best at anything really, but did Snape really have to be so cruel?

Neville turned the pot upside down and tapped the sides of the pot solidly to loosen the plant, and let it out of the pot. He fought the tickle in his nose and tried not to breathe too deeply, since the plant was pollinating.

Perhaps Snape only meant to build his character. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, or so he'd been told. Dragon's dung! As if Snape cared a whit for his well-being.

Neville couldn't fight the urge any longer and let out a tremendous sneeze. He nearly lost his grip on both the plant and the pot, yet he managed to place the pot on the ground in one piece. He manoeuvred off his glove and wiped his nose on his hankie.

Neville scowled at the thought of the greasy git. He might actually stand up to him one day, if only he wasn't so bloody scared of him.

With his glove back on, he examined the root bulb. Although it had already flowered, he decided to go ahead and repot the sneezewort, as it outgrew its current one. He carefully placed it back momentarily in its old pot and went to the storage closet for another. Once he spotted the right size, he tossed in a burlap bag filled with mix and brought it back to the workbench.

One day, he repeated to himself. One day I will.

He covered the hole in the bottom of the pot with a broken piece of clay, and poured in a good amount of mix. He massaged the tightened rootball with his fingers, gently coaxing it to unfurl. He then placed the plant into its new home and filled the rest of the pot with mix until it was an inch below the lip of the pot. He lifted the pot with a grunt, and placed it on the ground to water.

He tilted the watering can to let a gentle stream of water pass over the plant, and let his mind wander to more pleasant things. Like how gorgeous Harry looked that day.

The watering can slipped from his fingers and its clatter shattered the peaceful silence that usually enveloped his sanctuary.

Neville jumped, cursed under his breath and picked up the can before all the water drained onto the floor. Luckily, the sneezewort does not react aversely to pots with Unbreakable Charms; otherwise the abused pot would have been in pieces. He breathed deeply to calm his hammering heart, and wondered why the hell he was thinking about Harry in _that_ way. Neville had always felt gratitude and a measure of awe for him, but… what in the hell was he thinking? Gorgeous? _Harry_? The very brave, very male, _bloke_ that shared his dormitory for over six years?

He was going mad. That must be it, he thought. I've spent too much time around plants and lost my bloody mind.

He sneezed again.

He finished watering the sneezewort and placed it next to the others. Right outside the greenhouse was a rain barrel, and Neville went to refill the watering pail. He stood there for a moment, but set the pail to the side, cupped some water in his hands, and splashed his face. He rubbed the frigid water out of his eyes, and hoped it would clear his obviously demented mind.

He dried his face with the hem of his apron, and took a few cleansing breaths. A semblance of normalcy returned, and Neville felt it was enough to return to task. He took the full pail back inside, and continued watering.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, Neville repotted and tended to the rest of the greenhouse. When it was almost time for dinner, Neville rinsed out the old pots no longer being used and carried them along with the bag of mix and watering pail to the storage cupboard. He took off his gloves and apron and went up to Gryffindor Tower in hopes of having enough time to shower before dinner. He wasn't going to hope to see Harry in the dormitory. Not at all.

* * *

Later that evening, the common room was full of students playing various games or telling jokes, all refusing to even think of their homework until Sunday. No one noticed Neville was missing. At least no one remarked on it.

"Argh!"

In the seventh year boys' dormitory, a crumpled piece of parchment flew across the room to join the others already residing on the floor.

Neville leaned back against his bed and ran his hand over his face. How was he supposed to write a letter to George and Fred without sounding like a complete prat? For the past week, Neville had been trying to work up his courage to write the damn letter, and the last thing he needed was another way to make a fool of himself. He looked over to the growing pile across the room, and knew he would most likely need the job just to pay for more parchment.

Swallowing his anxiety and his pride, he bent to write what he hoped was his last draft.

It read:

_Fred and George Weasley, _

I saw the leaflet you sent around Hogwarts, and would like to be a beta tester for one of your products. What sort of product would I test? How much would I be paid?

Regards,  
Neville Longbottom.

Good. It was short, to the point, and contained no mistakes. He thought of going up to the Owlery tonight, but wondered what Fred and George would be doing. They were most likely out on dates, or developing a master prank on the Ministry. How utterly pathetic would it be to deliver a letter like that on a Saturday night? Neville decided it would be best to wait until Monday to send the letter. He placed the letter in the bottom of his trunk. Neville didn't know what he would do if anyone found it.

It was still only nine thirty, but Neville decided to go to bed. He didn't feel up to going downstairs and trying to get in a game of Exploding Snap or sitting at the edge of conversations. He went to the loo, brushed his teeth, changed, and climbed into bed. With his curtains closed and duvet up to his chin, Neville thought about the letter sitting at the bottom of his trunk. He worried his lip at the thought of what the twins would have him test. He knew it would certainly be something humiliating, he'd resigned himself to that, but its degree of humiliation was yet to be seen. Would it be terribly painful? Perhaps he should make an appointment with Madam Pomfrey ahead of time.

Knowing it was pointless to worry over something over which he had no control, he tried to put it out of his mind. Monday morning, he promised himself. He would send it on Monday and be done with it.

* * *

Fred and George Weasley sat in relative silence in their facing desks in their office at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on what they considered to be an obscenely early Monday morning. Each nursed a cup of strong coffee and groggily read the post that came in over the weekend.

The sound of Fred spitting his coffee all over his desk and letting out a bark of laughter brought George's head up in surprise. It was almost a written rule not to expend a large amount of energy before noon, so Fred's outburst was surprising.

George let out a snort. "What, did Fudge finally come out and ask to try our rumoured enhancement elixir?" He chuckled at the thought.

"Close, mate. Listen to this," said Fred, still laughing. He proceeded to read Neville's letter.

"Regards," Fred finished, "Neville Longbottom." He looked up at his twin with a manic grin.

George's mouth fell open in shock. "I'll be buggered," he breathed. "Neville _Longbottom_?"

"Do you suppose he's a masochist?" Fred asked lightly, cocking his head to the side. "He's got to either be that or bloody mad! 'I'd _like_ to be a beta tester,' he probably gets off on it, you know."

"Possible, but he's probably just broke," said George plainly. Fred's shoulders slumped in concession.

"But really, for money or no, to willingly place himself in our clutches again is… disturbing."

"Well, no matter what his reason for sending us an owl, we must decide which of our latest products to test," said George.

They both leaned back in their chairs, and bounced ideas around. Most products in development didn't need a tester as the positions were already filled by others who were in desperate need of gold.

"George, we've been thinking of our amateur products. What about our new line? Neville's of age now, isn't he?" Fred quirked his eyebrows.

George opened his mouth to protest, but a smirk grew on his face as he realized the possibilities. "Bloody brilliant, Fred." He jumped out of his seat in uncharacteristic excitement so early in the morning and began pacing the room.

Running through the list of their growing adult line, he stopped suddenly in his tracks and said with a matching grin in time with Fred, "The Yin Yang Whoo-ah."

* * *

Tuesday morning, an owl landed in front of Neville during breakfast. Neville didn't recognise the bird, but had a good idea who sent it. He gave the owl a piece of his toast and sent it on its way. Neville stared at his name written in a messy scrawl in blue ink.

"Who's the letter from?" asked Seamus. Neville looked up in surprise, unable to erase the guilty countenance from his face.

"This? Oh! It's um, from my gran," he answered. He stuffed the letter into his bag.

"Oh." Seamus frowned a bit. "Did she get a new owl? I don't remember seeing that one before."

"Yeah," added Dean. "Hers was the old, mangy one, right?"

They both looked to Neville.

"Uh… I guess she got a new owl, then." He stood hurriedly, and said, "I'm going to the library for a bit, see you in class." Seamus and Dean exchanged looks, shrugged and continued eating.

Neville sank into one of the chairs in the library. Making sure no one else was around he took out the letter and tore open the seal.

_Neville, _

Glad to have you on board! The potion we have in mind is an aphrodisiac, and its effects should last about an hour. Fred has already tested it, and with a few modifications we want to be sure of its potency and duration on someone other than ourselves. Sign the attached contract, and send us an owl of the date of the next Hogsmeade weekend, and we'll meet you there to administer the potion. Since we're friends, for services rendered, 10 galleons will be given after a report of the effects of the potion is written.

Fred and George Weasley,  
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

He read over the letter once more. An aphrodisiac. Isn't that… doesn't that make you want to…

Merlin's balls! Why on earth did the twins want to give him _that_? He stared at the parchment in shock before dropping his face into his hands. God, how was he supposed to help as a test subject if… if he didn't…hadn't…

Dammit! He couldn't even think the word.

He let out a growl of frustration. Why did they want to give him an aphrodisiac? Was it some twisted joke? He mentally slapped himself. Of course, Fred and George would get a kick out of this. They probably knew he'd never had a girlfriend. Would he be the control test? The one who tests the effects when not getting shagged? He scowled down at the parchment.

Bloody hell.

He ran a hand through his hair and glanced over the letter again. Ten Galleons.

_No!_ His mind protested.

It was a lot of money.

_No way in hell_.

It only lasts for an hour.

_It's your balls' funeral_.

Could it really be so bad?

_Says the bloke who has the worst bloody luck in the world_.

Shut it.

He stuffed the letter into his bag once more, and on his way out of the library glanced at the large grandfather clock behind Madam Pince's desk. He swore under his breath, and hitched his bag higher on his shoulder. He had less than two minutes to get down to the greenhouse for Herbology, and thankfully pushed thoughts of the letter to the back of his mind in favour of the much safer subject of his next class.

* * *

A/N: Though I am loath to admit it, I am a review slut. I have no moral fibre in that area. Any feedback would be welcome and appreciated. 


	3. È possibile che ha tendenze—omosessuali?

Summary: In desperate need of money when his Gran sends an owl to tell him he will be receiving no more allowance, Neville applies to test some of the Weasley twins' latest products. Little does he know they are starting a new line directed towards a more adult audience, and consider him a prime subject for testing an aphrodisiac. Taken from Challenge #86 from Woobies of Destiny Harry/Neville fuh-q fest.

Disclaimer: not mine, although I've been looking into having my name legally changed to Rowling…

A/N: I'm sorry I haven't updated in a couple months. I got caught up in finals, and then the hols, and then classes started again, and I got sick, my beta got sick… Again, I'm sorry for the delay. But, this happens to be the longest chapter I've ever written. So be happy! Hells has been an incredible beta, and helped me so much. Thank you!

**Chapter Three: È possibile che ha tendenze — omosessuali? **

Neville's eyes snapped open. A stab of panic went through him for a moment because he was unable to remember when he closed them. He blinked and tried to clear away the heavy drowsiness pressing his eyes closed. Neville glanced around the class at the other students in various states of unconsciousness to reassure himself that he hadn't missed anything. He looked blearily up at Professor Binns, who was explaining the underlying factors in the Fifty Years War of the Grecian Merpeople, and the inclusion of Lobalug warfare. He remembered the Triwizard Tournament, and stared at his professor and wondered how he could even make merpeople sound boring.

With what remaining brainpower he possessed, Neville made the official decision to give up on paying attention to the lecture. He rested his head on his left hand, closed his eyes for a moment, and let Binns' monotonous voice carry him off to sleep once again. He was right on the cusp of true sleep when his head slipped off his hand, jarring him awake once more. He gave up on sleep for the moment, and looked lazily over at Harry. He really did look so much better since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated. Without the anxiety and danger hanging over his head, Harry began to resemble a normal teenager. The purple smudges, which had taken up permanent residence over the past few years, were gone, detracting nothing from his bright green eyes.

A grimace grew on Neville's face. _Oh God,_ he thought. _I'm turning into a poof._ Although he didn't want to, he couldn't keep himself from looking back to Harry's prone form. Harry's face was turned towards him, his head pillowed on his folded arms. His lips pouted slightly from his cheek being pressed into his forearms and a bit of drool was oozing out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes were obscured by his glasses sitting askew on his face, and his hair was as messy as ever.

Neville allowed himself a slight smile at the sight. He was wonderful.

He frowned and looked back down at his parchment, only marked with the heading of that day's lecture. _Wonderful now, is he? You truly are a ponce, Neville_, he told himself.

He didn't like Harry, he just… admired him. Harry was a great bloke. He was smart, brave, and a great Quidditch player. He worried his bottom lip and knew admiration didn't lead to fixated staring.

After dinner, Neville found himself once again in the library. He knew he needed to send the contract back to Fred and George soon, and just wanted to be done with it. Neville unfolded the letter, and after reading the note over once again, he stared at the small, blank piece of parchment attached to the note.

"_Finite Incantatum_," he said after a moment, tapping his wand to the parchment. The parchment grew in length, slithering off the desk and curling down onto the floor. After it looked as though it would not grow any longer, Neville looked it over on both sides, but it was still blank.

He frowned for a moment but said, "_Aparecium_." Neville felt a surge of pride as he watched the print appear on the paper, yet it turned to uneasiness as every possible inch of parchment was covered in tiny, cramped writing. He brought it up close to his face, and could only make out:

_I, hereby bequeath my right for legal action against Mr.(s) Fred and George Weasley, in the testing of agreed substances, and forgo any medical attention forthwith …_

Neville scanned the rest of the parchment, but as he went along the script became too small to read. What he could see at the bottom, however, was a place for him to sign his name. Neville bit and chewed on his lip, unsure if he truly wanted to do this.

Questioning whether he was signing his very soul away by agreeing to their longwinded terms, but unable to part with the chance of getting ten Galleons, he printed his name at the top and signed the bottom.

He stood up to leave, but remembered he needed to tell them when the next Hogsmeade visit was. He sat back down and hastily wrote out a note.

_Fred and George, _

Here's the contract, and the visit is on Saturday, November 29th. I was wondering, where and when do I meet you? What will happen after I take the potion? And what was all that writing on the contract I couldn't read?

Neville Longbottom  
Scared shitless

He grimaced at his lack of backbone, but before he could ask any more questions, he tied up the note along with the shrunken contract. He considered removing the last comment, but figured they'd know he was, regardless of what he wrote.

The walk up to the Owlery was fraught with doubt for Neville. Five minutes after his first ascent up the final staircase to his destination found him halfway up, breath slightly laboured from walking up and down the stairs at least five times from indecision.

"Are you a Gryffindor or not?" he berated the wall he'd been staring at for the past few minutes. He listened as the question echoed down the stairwell. After a fortifying breath, Neville walked up the final steps, held out some bread he kept from dinner to coax one of the owls from their perches, and sent off the missive before he could change his mind.

Neville watched the owl disappear into the sun. To calm himself, he stayed and watched as the sun slowly came to rest in the distant hills, and the bright fire lit in the sky and clouds slowly cooled to glowing embers and then darkened until the white coolness of the stars dimly lit the sky.

* * *

Early the next morning, Neville rose in the predawn light and trudged into the boys' bathroom to shower. Eyes half open, his body went through the motions of undressing and walking into one of the stalls lining the tiled walls. He knew his way around enough that he usually forwent lighting the room. He turned on the spray, and waited a moment for the water to heat before stepping in. He put his face under the spray, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and turned and wet his hair. His eyes, accustomed to the darkness, allowed him to see the shadowy arches and supports of the ceiling and the steam from his shower rise and curl in the draught before dissipating. The only sound was the echoing splash of water against the tiles and the gurgling of the drain. Neville had always preferred waking before all the others to enjoy his ablutions on his own. While living with his gran, he always woke before dawn to do chores, and during school he kept the habit of rising early. It was only through his third year he occasionally shared the bathroom with Percy Weasley in the early morning hours, and he supposed that was when Percy didn't want to walk all the way to the Prefect's Bathroom on the fifth floor. From his fourth year on, however, Neville enjoyed his showers in solitude.

He took his time washing his hair and his body, mind meandering through thoughts of upcoming classes and what would be served for breakfast. Thoughts of being in the Great Hall led him to remember last week when Ginny rose from the bench, he caught a glimpse of thigh and a flash of underwear. A shot of heat coiled in his abdomen and sank down to his swelling cock. Ginny had great legs, he thought. His hands moved to cup his sac and trail lightly up and down his length, thoughts of shapely, Quidditch-toned legs being revealed slowly by a plaid skirt being raised making him pulse with need.

As a sort of challenge with himself, Neville always tried to last as long as possible and without making a sound. The latter was almost a necessity, and something Neville wished Seamus would consider being worthwhile, especially in the dormitory. At least twice a week Neville lay awake in the darkness trying to get the sound of Seamus' raucous heaving and squeaking out of his mind so he could get back to sleep.

He shook his head, and turned his mind back to task. Generally, he never heard any of his other roommates. Either they usually did their business in the showers like himself, or mastered Silencing Charms around their beds. It was generally obvious, though, when the curtains were the only ones closed in the room and it wasn't that chilly of a night, what one was doing.

Neville wondered idly what Harry sounded like when he wanked. Would he moan, or did he possess enough control that heavy breathing would be the only indicator of his actions?

Neville bit back a moan and quickened his pace as that particular thought made a spark of pleasure shoot from the base of his spine down the length of his cock. Suddenly a mental picture of Harry standing in front of him, his hard, flushed cock in hand, blazing green eyes staring into his own replaced any thought of shapely legs hidden by the folds of a skirt. Neville saw Harry's eyes behind his glasses, pupils dilated, his mouth hanging open, and breaths coming in and out in pants. Harry's pink tongue darted out and licked his lips, all the while keeping eye contact with Neville. Without any warning, Neville came with a shout. White bursts of light flashed behind his eyes as his release spattered against the tiles. Boneless and panting, he leant against the wall for support, and tried to calm his breathing.

He stared with wide, unseeing eyes at the wall as his come slid down the tiles and mixed with the water. What the hell was that? How did Ginny turn into Harry?

Harry's face. His lips. Harry's _cock_. He thought about Harry while he jerked off. Holy mother of Merlin! What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

I… I couldn't have…that wasn't…

_The hardest you've ever come? You know it was._

What? It was not!

_Stop deluding yourself._

"I like girls," he told the remaining trails of come on the wall. Their very existence told him differently.

He swore and beat his head against the wall.

* * *

At breakfast, Neville managed to push the matter out of his mind until Harry walked into the Hall, in the middle of a conversation with Ron. Neville felt blood creeping up his neck, burning his ears, and looked back down at his plate to calm himself. He tried to convince himself that nothing would give him away except _exactly_ how he was acting right then. He took a calming breath, and continued eating. It wasn't as if anyone knew what he did that morning.

"Morning." Ginny sat down across from him and began helping herself to eggs and toast.

"Morning, Ginny," he answered. Neville watched as Ginny sipped her pumpkin juice and began a conversation with Dean, who sat next to her. Her red hair spilled past her shoulders, and her open robe allowed Neville to catch a glimpse of the outline of a breast straining against the white cotton of her shirt.

He brought to mind what it might look like uncovered, how the soft skin would feel against his palm, and the exact shade of pink of the nipple, darkening as it rose to a hard peak.

He raised his eyes to the blue morning sky and thanked whatever deity might abide there as he felt heat pool in his groin. He liked girls!

Relief washed over him in waves, allowing him an easy grin. He couldn't even bother himself with his pressing problem under his robes. Neville relished in the restricting pressure of his trousers; it only reinforced the fact that he wasn't gay! That fact, and not having a class for twenty minutes, made it all the more bearable.

Neville watched as the morning post arrived with a flurry of owls' wings. His relaxed and relieved state refused to let him become worried when a response from the joke shop came.

_Neville, _

Don't worry, my good man! George and I will take good care of you. The Hog's Head is the only establishment with an inn, so meet us in the pub at 5:00. We'd like for it to be later, but we remember McGonagall's pesky curfew. We'll tell you all you need to know about the potion when we meet, and don't worry your pretty little head about all that legal jargon. See you soon!

Fred Weasley  
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

Some of his effervescent mood fizzled when he realised he hadn't got a clear answer from Fred, but kept it all in perspective. He didn't really expect the twins to be completely honest with him, and he would still get ten Galleons. And he wasn't gay!

For the rest of breakfast, Neville let the conversation wash over him, all the while repeating in his head in celebration, "I'm not gay, I'm not gay, I'm not gay!" What could be truly wrong with the world when Neville knew without a doubt for what side of the Quidditch team he played?

Neville's dreamy smile stayed plastered on his face as he turned to watch Ron, Hermione, and Harry get up and leave for their lesson. Harry stood, but stopped with a pained grimace. He put his bag back down on the bench, raised his arms over his head, and stretched. And _stretched_. Neville watched, smile frozen, as Harry, arms reaching for the ceiling, arched his back, pulling his shirt tight against his chest. His flat chest. His firm, flat, man chest, which held no kind of female breast that would explain why Neville was staring. Hands now on his hips, Harry let out a groan as he twisted his torso, eliciting small cracks and pops from his spine, and then twisted the other way.

"You alright, mate?"

"Yeah, Ron. My back's a bit sore, is all. Must've slept on it wrong." Harry picked up his bag yet again, and caught up with Ron and Hermione, who were waiting for him.

"See you in class, Neville," Harry said with a grin as he passed. Neville was incapable of forming a response, and helplessly watched the trio as they exited the Hall. Neville stared at the empty doorway, frozen, unable to breathe.

After a moment, he looked back up at the mocking, blue sky of the ceiling and wondered what he did to piss off whatever deity he previously thought favoured him. He scowled down at the dregs in his coffee cup for the cruel twist of fate.

"You might want to hurry up, Neville," Ginny advised. "Class starts in a few minutes." She drank the last of her juice, and put away a book she had been studying.

"Thanks, Ginny." Neville made a move to rise, but bit back a groan as his trousers pulled painfully tight against his renewed erection. He sat back down with a thud. Neville refrained from putting his head in his hands, but whimpered to himself, "I like girls."

* * *

Throughout the rest of the week, Neville spent his time attempting to convince himself of his own heterosexuality. He even tried to joke with Dean and Seamus about catching a bit of skirt, but their puzzled looks at his behaviour discouraged him from utilising that arena to reassure himself of his masculinity any longer. They were still giving him odd looks, he thought.

He was also unable to shake the image of Harry when wanking. Just the thought of Harry touching himself, twisting his own nipples, his hands trailing lower to fondle himself… made Neville come sooner and harder than he could even remember.

Harry certainly didn't help matters, either. Neville couldn't explain in words what it was he did, but it was all Harry's fault it was impossible not to watch him. Those thrice damned Sugar Quills.

Neville was rendered immobile for the entirety of their Charms lecture on Wednesday because of those Sugar Quills. Well, those, and Harry's lips, his teeth, and that tongue worrying, nibbling, and sucking on them. If Neville did not intrinsically believe in Harry's goodness, he would have thought he did it on purpose.

Neville let a whimper slip past in the otherwise empty bathroom as he rode out another orgasm induced by illicit thoughts including Harry, Sugar Quills, and edible ink, bracing himself against the shower wall.

* * *

"Hermione, can't we go now? We've got half of it done already, and it's not due until tomorrow afternoon!"

"Ron, stop whinging. You'll thank me tomorrow."

Ron silently mimicked her newest catchphrase, which made Harry chuckle.

Without looking up from her work, Hermione arched her eyebrow and said, "I saw that." The boys shared a stifled laugh before trudging onward through their DADA essay.

The common room was fairly hushed that hour; the only noise was the scratching of quills or a quiet murmur between study partners. Many of the upper years had a study break while most the other lower years were still in class. After dinner the common room returned to its usual lively and bustling self, but for now its use was primarily studying.

"Have—" Hermione hesitated in a quiet undertone. "Have you noticed anything different about Neville lately?" Harry and Ron looked to each other, shrugged, and shook their heads, but both were happy for the distraction from their essays.

"What do you mean, Hermione?" asked Ron.

"Well, I don't know if I can really explain it. He's been…withdrawn, I suppose. At times I think he looks a bit ill as well."

"I don't think he's sick," said Harry.

Hermione shook her head. "Neither do I, but he's been acting oddly. A bit quieter."

"How can you tell?" joked Ron. "It's not as if he speaks up much in the first place." Hermione rolled her eyes.

"You know that's not what I mean." She bit her lip and hesitated a bit before asking, "Have either of you noticed him… fancying anyone?" Both Harry and Ron drew a blank.

"Oh! I remember him mentioning a girl in Ravenclaw, but that was ages ago," said Ron.

"Do you think he's depressed about a girl, Hermione?" asked Harry.

She bit her lip again. "Not about a girl," she said looking at them both pointedly.

Ron furrowed his brow in incomprehension. "What?" he asked, while Harry gave Hermione a wary glance.

"What are you on about, Hermione?" asked Ron again.

Exasperated, she said, "I said I don't think he's depressed about a girl, but a—," and left it at that.

A look of unadulterated horror grew on Ron's face. "You can't just go 'round saying that about people, Hermione!" He remembered where he was, and lowered his voice. "You could ruin a bloke's reputation with that in a second."

Hermione leant closer and hissed, "There's absolutely nothing wrong with being attracted to the same gender, Ronald, and I'm not even saying explicitly he is, I'm just making an observation and was wondering if anyone else noticed."

"Look, the last thing I need is to know there might be a bloke secretly checkin' me out. You can't just say someone's a poof for no reason!"

Hermione looked to Harry for help, but he avoided her eye. She sighed again.

"Look, Ron, I've seen him watching someone, and, well, it's a bit obvious, really."

"Bloody hell. He hasn't been checking me out, has he?" Ron's eyes grew to the size of saucers.

Hermione huffed and said, "Not everything is about you, Ron."

Immensely relieved, Ron leant back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. He became worried again and asked, "Well, who does he fancy? He needs a bit of warning if—"

"If what, Ron? Neville might jump him in the corridor for everyone to see? Or accost him in the shower? If it were a girl you wouldn't think it necessary for him have any sort of warning, since it's her private, personal feelings. How is that different from Neville?"

Ignoring her question, Ron asked, "Who is it, Hermione?" Hermione glanced at Harry for a moment before looking back down at her essay.

"You're being such an insensitive and immature prat about it, so for Neville's sake, I'm not going to tell you."

"Where do you get off calling me insensitive? I've listened to you for the past six years, haven't I?"

"Oh, so our entire friendship has been you turning a deaf ear to everything I say? You wouldn't have passed your second year exams without my help!"

At that, Harry took his essay upstairs to the dormitory. Ron and Hermione would be back to normal, if not by dinner, by breakfast the next day, but he preferred not to witness the increasingly caustic, yet relentless cycle once again. He paused halfway up the stairwell and frowned. Was Hermione right? Was Neville really gay? He wondered who it was he fancied.

The next morning, Hermione and Ron were still not talking, which at least made for a quiet, if not peaceful, breakfast. After Harry finished breakfast, Hermione motioned for him to follow her, and reluctantly, he did, out of the Great Hall and into an empty classroom.

Hermione shut the door and opened her mouth with a request on her tongue, but Harry stopped her short with a decisive, "No, Hermione."

Hermione deflated. "But Harry, it will be different—"

"No, Hermione, it won't. You saw the way he reacted yesterday. It's as if now he's more scared of that than an Acromantula." He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his loose shoelace.

"Did you just make that stuff up about Neville?" he asked in a quiet voice.

Highly affronted, she answered, "Of course not! But I wouldn't have mentioned it to him if I didn't think it would warm him up to the prospect a bit."

Harry gave a wan smile.

A comfortable silence filled the room.

"I do plan on speaking to Neville, though."

Harry shook his head in alarm. "Hermione, don't you think it's best to let him tell someone on his own?"

"That's the thing, Harry. He probably never would. He must feel very isolated now, and I'd like to give him a chance to open up." She shrugged and added, "I'm even thinking of starting a support group." She gave him a winning smile.

Harry grimaced. "S.P.E.W. rears its ugly head," he said, laughing, before spending the rest of the morning break in the hospital wing nursing an uncommon amount of boils in the most peculiar places.

* * *

That Friday, a week and a day before the Hogsmeade trip, found Neville once again tending to the plants in the greenhouse. He was busy moving the Gurdyroot plant from the southwest corner of the greenhouse to the northeast. They reached the point in their maturation where the only sunlight they could tolerate was limited early morning light, compared with earlier in the season, when they needed full sun throughout the day to grow sufficiently.

He was halfway towards his goal when a geranium grabbed hold of the sleeve of his robes when he passed by too closely. He set down the heavy pot and was in the process of tickling the base of the flower to make it let go, when he heard someone call his name.

"Back here," he replied. The geranium finally let go, and he hoisted the pot again. He heard the approaching footsteps and saw Hermione coming towards him.

"Hullo, Hermione," he grunted. "Did you need something?"

Hermione came up, ready with a question, but stopped and gave him a puzzled look. "Neville, why don't you levitate the pot instead of carrying it? I'm sure it would save you a lot of time."

He gave a sheepish grin, and sat down the pot once again. "Well, the Gurdyroot is particularly sensitive and overall is quite a fussy plant, and doesn't like much magic around it. That," he added, "and you've seen me with magic, Hermione. I'm much less likely to muck it up without trying to use magic all the time."

Neville recognised the look of pity, and he brushed off her comment of, "Oh, Neville, don't discredit yourself like that. You're a great wizard," or other such nonsense he knew not to bother himself with.

He picked up the pot once again, and moved to go past her to the opposite corner of the greenhouse, but Hermione stopped him.

"Neville," she said, "I feel I need to speak to you about something." At her hesitant, anxious tone, Neville looked to the plants on his left and right for a clue of what she could want to talk about, and wiped off some of the dirt and dragon's dung from his hands onto his apron in apprehension.

"O-okay," he answered.

Hermione opened her mouth to begin, but closed it after a moment. She bit her lip, opened her mouth again, but only let out a sigh of frustration. Neville frowned at her odd behaviour. He couldn't remember the last time he saw Hermione struck speechless as she was now.

"You see, Neville, I—" she swallowed, "—that is, I've _noticed_…"

Neville hadn't the faintest clue what she was blathering on about, and was about to offer her assistance to the hospital wing when she blurted out –

"I know you're gay."

Her statement echoed in his mind, which was completely empty of any other activity. Neville heard the distant cooing and chatter of plants on the row adjacent to theirs, could feel the heat rising to his face in embarrassment, saw out of the corner of his eye the geranium about to attack his sleeve again, and the way Hermione shifted her weight between her feet, but none of these observations registered in his brain.

After what seemed an eternity he remembered how to breathe, and let a "_What_?" out, along with a rush of air.

"It's okay, Neville! I accept you!" Hermione jumped over the potted plant and hugged him around the middle.

He looked around the greenhouse, horror-struck and helpless as Hermione kept a firm embrace on his midsection. He finally disentangled herself from her arms, and bellowed, "What the BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON? IS THIS SOME KIND OF SICK **_JOKE_**?"

He looked about the greenhouse wondering when the world finally decided to go completely mad on him. He only wanted to get away, but the only exit was past Hermione, and he didn't want to risk getting too close lest he were attacked again. He began to back away slowly from her, and felt for his wand in his robes.

"Neville," she implored, "I understand! You're afraid what others will think, but you don't have to repress your feelings and emotions! If you feel attracted to boys, you should have the right—"

"**I'M NOT _ATTRACTED_ TO BOYS!**"

"— to express those feelings. The wizarding world is so far behind in the rights of homosexual men —"

"**I'M NOT GAY!**"

"—and women compared to Muggles, it's despicable the way they just want to pretend they don't exist!"

"You're bloody mad, Hermione," Neville said in a grave, quiet tone, and damned the consequences as he pushed past her towards the door.

"But I want to help!" she cried as she jogged to catch up to him. "We could start a support group, and create a safe place for people to allow themselves to be who they really are." She stopped him at the door and looked at him imploringly.

Thoughts of S.P.E.W. flashed through his mind, and with an accusatory glare he said, "I'm not going to be the poster boy for your next project to help the oppressed, Hermione! I'm not gay! I like girls, for Merlin's sake!"

He threw open the door to the greenhouse and stalked across the lawn and into the castle. Neville raced up the steps to Gryffindor tower, and shut himself in his dormitory.

"Don't knock masturbation — it's sex with someone I love."  
Woody Allen

Note: "_È possibile che ha tendenze - omosessuali?_" translates from Italian to "Is it possible that he has homosexual tendencies?" and is from the movie, the Talented Mr. Ripley. I had fun writing this chapter. Neville is way too fun to screw around with, lol.


End file.
